jamieproctor.ca

Keeper’s Records for the Residents of Summerdale Dr.; Midland, ON; Canada.

Lena J. Christoff
Riled ever since Assistant Keeper Thomas dropped her feed bucket last week. Has feigned charges at every worker passing by her compound for six weeks running. Only enter the yard in pairs or greater numbers, with cattle prods at the ready.

Timothy van Duffel
Was well on the road to settling in until something spooked him severely Wednesday. Ruffled plumage and nervous disposition ever since. Some of his tracks were spotted on Gary Olson’s lawn; it’s possible they had an altercation overnight. Extra feed for the next few days and give him some space. And someone ask management for the budget for proper surveillance coverage. Next time we could lose someone’s neck.

New arrival: Keith Halibut
Large but reserved, remains contentedly aloof. Not a bad way to respond to a move, but we want to make him comfortable with the public. Slip a few deboned raw chickens into his diet – just toss them at the end of the lawn. Get him used to showing off early, before he gets too comfortable in his shell.

Elizabeth Edwards
Restive and fractious this week. Meals must be given in absolutely pulverized state to avoid further agitation. Teething remains a difficulty. Use the tongs to avoid nipped fingers or worse; ask Senior Keeper Holly why she has to cut her right-handed gloves short a knuckle.

Laurel Bruce
Remains sickly, off her feed. Grind the pills extremely fine before putting them in her morning oats or she’ll know something’s up and refuse to eat. Keeper Andrew is still on double shifts there; he’s the only one she’ll relax enough around to get some sleep. Keep extra coffee on standby for him so he won’t nod off in the pen.

Gary Olson
Frankly, one more week of misbehaviour out of this guy and I vote we send him to the knackers. Still bullies the other inhabitants of his lot, and he’s up at all hours screaming his head off. If he tripped on a rock and broke his empty little head overnight, the first thing we’d notice is everyone else’d be a lot more relaxed. Until then, firm hands and ignore him when he acts up… but if he tries any shit, give him both ends of the taser. Boundaries. Needs them.

Heather Mangrove.
Remains hyperactive and bouncing off the walls after the misdiagnosis – no hard feelings, Keeper Terry, but you need to be clearer with the vets, because next time might not be so (relatively) harmless. The meds should be out of her system by 6 AM Saturday, but until then don’t give her any food, just lots of water. She’ll sleep like a log when the high’s over, so have a double feed ready Sunday morning.

Gabbie Wellington
Is a grade-A monster. Needs more socialization with older individuals. Maybe bunk her with Laurel Bruce for daytime sessions once Laurel’s feeling better, give them both something to do.

Bob
Carry along with whatever you’re doing, I refuse to get involved.

Keeper O’Neil
Is doing quite well thank you. Ha ha. Look, I don’t ask that you take your jobs stone-faced, I don’t ask that you do your work unsmilingly, I just request that you take it SERIOUSLY. And that involves not putting your co-workers on the list, okay? Okay.
Anyways, give him more donuts.

Francis Mark
Fine. No problems here. Straight As across the board. God, I wish you were all like Francis. Why can’t you all be more like Francis?

George Newbury
Still broody, even though he’s (a) half a lifetime past parenting age and (b) attempting to baby a chew toy. We may have to put him down soon before it gets too painful for him.

Reginald Samsa
Having difficulties with the climate, although there’s no obvious symptoms of hypothermia yet. Next time he’s in the yard sneak him extra bedding and maybe a hot water bottle, that should tide him over until he gets used to the chill.

Theresa Mulberry, Sr. & Jr.
Happy and healthy, but something of a road hazard. Try to monitor their movements and be ready to hustle smaller residents out of the way when they’re on the go so they don’t carom them right off the sidewalk and into the ditch; that’s how we lost Donald Zimmer thirty years ago.

Keeper O’Neil’s Big Fat Donut-Filled Gut
oh screw you guys

Yeah, I might’ve told you about my great-uncle Tony before. Was a real-life thrillseeker. He was something like seventy-four, and he was going up – not Everest, one of the other ones, you know. K2? Maybe? Who knows. Anyways, he was out on a ledge or something (I’m not a climber), and he had his ice axe out, and he swung and yanked and hauled himself up and wouldn’t you know, I have no idea how he did this, but he was holding it BACKWARDS. Tried to haul himself and a forty-pound backpack up by the gripping force of a rubber handle.
His friend Louis got a look at him as he went by, and he said those were the most consternated eyebrows he’d ever seen on a man anywhere.
Not surprised, just VEXED.
Crazy ol’ great-uncle Tony.

I remember my cousin Janice very fondly. She knew everybody in my family, and she told me that story about our great-uncle Tony just the week before she passed. Man, she would’ve loved the way she went. Who hooks a whale when they were looking for mackerel? What a way to leave – whip-snap over the side like ol’ Ahab himself. Didn’t even have time to shout. And she’d just taken her jacket off and hadn’t replaced her floaters; boy, the things that make a difference when you think back twenty seconds.
Ah, well. She always did like the sea, Janice did. She’s just part of it now.

Oh, hadn’t you heard?
Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, but no, Denise’s been dead for like a year.
I know! I know, she was so young! She had funny pains in her arm the day after she helped me move – we had such a good time, sat around, shot the shit about all our relatives, had too much pizza. She called me in the morning to ask if I’d forgotten anything, thought she’d pulled something, then I heard a thump and she’d fallen right over. Called the hospital and by the time the ambulance showed up, well, that was that.
A stroke at thirty, can you believe it? Wow, neither could the doctors. Probably going to end up being a data point in a study somewhere.

Okay, I should explain a bit, because there was the flood, yes, but they didn’t tell us exactly cause of death until we got to the morgue, because they didn’t want to sensationalize it. So we were standing there in the lobby while they told us Eddie did everything right aside from not evacuating right away.
He saw the water rising, knew he had to get off the ground floor, and knew his attic was a safe place to wait because the windows there were real big and he could get onto the roof if he needed to. Young, athletic guy, he felt pretty confident about this. So he walked upstairs and pulled down the ladder and climbed up there with his arms full of blankets and cans and he was practically standing nose to nose with a tiger. A Bengal tiger.
There was a tiger in there!
I know, a tiger! The zoo flooded too, and it swam out and got caught in a current and it hauled itself out on his back porch roof and got into his attic through the window.
Well…it had an awfully big personal space bubble. And it was pretty scared at the time. So that was it for poor ol’ Eddie. Strangest thing I’ve ever heard happen to any member of my family. He’d been having such a bad year too, since Denise died. They were such good friends.

And just there, in between the lines and behind the words, there was
The drop
The snag
The clutch
The shock
The fear
And the pain

But you can’t tell someone else’s story without leaving a few things out.

“He’s very well-trained, you know. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Isn’t that right?”
A tawny, half-toasted sort of day.
“Oh yes dear. Not even one of those big fat ugly flies, the ones we get in August. Ugh!”
A tawny, half-toasted sort of cat. Big and sleek until the mane ruined everything, obliterating the smooth line of the back in a furry explosion of fluff.
It yawned in the August sun. The tongue was surprisingly red.
“Can they pet him?”
“Oh they may, they should, they must. Go on, give him a tickle. He loves a good tickle. Good afternoon officers, may I ask what’s the matter?”
“Murder,” said Constable Bell, who’d always wanted to say that. Murr-durr. Sonorous, like a whale. Except Constable Bell had a voice like a chickadee, so instead it came out as meer-deer.
“Oh no!” said Mr. June. His pale shocked eyes stood out in his pale thin face. “You little kids had better move along, this is grownup stuff. Murder!”
“Oh no!” agreed Mrs. June.
“Oh yes,” said Constable Drum, who had a deep sonorous voice like a whale and wasted it. “Just down the road. Horrible. Just horrible. Blood everywhere, very awful. We’re taking witness statements, do you want to make one?”
Mr. June and Mrs. June considered one another. They had their own language, made entirely of meaningful and meaningless glances.
“Yes,” said Mr. June, “we must. We’re brand new here.”
“No,” said Mrs. June, “we really musn’t. We’re brand new here.”
“Oh fine.”
“All right then.”
“If you insist.”
“No, no, no, have it your way.”
And Mrs. June turned to the two police officers once more.
“We are appalled and horrified and can’t believe our ears or eyes,” she said. “My goodness. What an awful thing to happen in such a nice neighborhood.”
Constable Bell swore.
“Goodness me!”
“No, no, it’s fine. I broke my pencil. Could you repeat your statement into this recorder?”
“Certainly. We are appalled and horrified and can’t believe our ears or eyes,” she said. “My goodness. What an awful thing to happen in such a nice neighborhood.”
“It wasn’t on.”
“Oh dear. We are appalled and horrified and can’t believe our ears or eyes,” she said. “My goodness. What an awful thing to happen in such a nice neighborhood.”
“Hang on, the switch is stuck.”
“Alright. We are”

“Quality people, they are,” said Constable Bell as their car started. We’ve always needed more quality people like that about. Not like the bums that grow up around this place.”
The Junes’ lion swished its tail indolently in the mellow sunlight, ears barely-prickling as the officers sped down the road. It yawned once more, with lazy satisfaction. And it belched.

***

September. The trees were ready to shed, but remained very fat.
“Those trees are very fat,” observed Constable Drum.
Constable Bell swatted Constable Drum’s hat.
“Ow.”
“Eyes on the murder.”
“Sorry.”
It was a messy thing. Half the man’s face had been chewed off, the other half had been spat out. The abdomen had been gutted, and what had happened to the guts was simply abominable. It made Constable Bell’s skin nearly crawl right off and go home early.
“I think it was a tiger,” said Constable Drum.
“Astute observation, Constable Drum,” said Constable Bell. “What makes you say that?”
“The big teeth marks and the big claw marks and the saliva and the way half of the body was buried in a shallow pit,” said Constable Drum.
“Very nice theory,” said Constable Bell.
“Thanks. I read it in a book.”
“Well, get a refund. Because, Constable Drum, there’s two tigers within five hundred miles and they’re both at the city’s zoo, and they’re both toothless and very much secure.”
“Shucks. Ooh! Ooh!”
“What’re you waving at?” snapped Constable Bell.
“The Junes! There they are!”
“Where?”
“Over there! Walking their lion.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Wave back!”
“No need. Hello, Mrs. June, Mr. June.”
“Hello, sirs,” said Mr. June. “Geez that looks nasty. Any idea what could’ve done it to him?”
“Not an idea,” said Constable Bell.
“A tig-ugh,” suggested Constable Drum and Constable Bell’s left elbow.
“Could be, could be,” mused Mrs. June. “I don’t know what’s happened to this neighborhood. We bought a house here because of the good property values. I love good property values so very much, you know that? Anyways we bought a good house with good property values that I loved so very much, you know that, and after we’d bought that good house with good property values that I loved so very much, you know that, what’s gone and happened? Bodies everywhere.”
“That was an impressive breath you took there,” said Constable Bell. “Do you sing?”
“Oh, no. I just like talking.”
“Me too,” said Constable Drum.
“Yes,” agreed Constable Bell, with Constable Bell’s left elbow seconding.
Mr. June pursed his lips at the dismembered corpse. “These days,” he mused. “So much violence these days. Well, a rising tide belts all lifts.”
The lion leaned against his legs, seeking love and skritches. It received them.

***

“Trick or treat.”
“Scram, kid,” said Constable Bell, gently.
“Here, he can have a kidney.”
“Put it back, Drum.”
“She won’t be needing them anymore, surely.”
“It’s for the sake of procedure, doorknob. And besides, it’s HIS kidney.”
“Oh. Whoops. Wait, that leaves him with three. Was this one from the person behind the door?”
Sometimes you just want to sigh and rub your forehead. Constable Bell was elbow-deep in blood and therefore did not have that luxury.
“Five people. Three kidneys. Just put it down somewhere, we’ll figure it out later. God, I’ve always hated jigsaws.”
“Trick or treat.”
“Scram, kid,” suggested Constable Bell.
“It’s the Junes!”
“Coo-ee,” said Mrs. June. “Oh my goodness, that’s a new trick. I’ve never seen the Morgans turn themselves inside out before.”
“They had help,” said Constable Bell.
“Murder?”
“Or a very bad prank,” said Constable Drum.
“Or a very bad prank,” said Constable Bell. “Never know what the damned kids’ll pull off every year. Keep a hand on your lion, people. They could try and run off with that next. They’ll steal anything, these types. Low-lifes. Not quality folks like you and me.”
“And me.”
“And Constable Drum.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. June. “We’ve got a good tight chain on him. See? They’d need to bring bolt-cutters.”
“Hang on, I’ve got to phone the SPCA,” said Constable Bell. “That’s blood on its neck, that is.”
“Oh, it’s not the lion’s,” explained Mrs. June.
“Whew,” said Constable Drum.
“Whew,” agreed the Junes.
“Damnit,” said Constable Bell, stepping on the fourth kidney.

***

November forever, for ages and ages. Colder every day.
“Give me the coffee.”
“I can’t. My hands are full.”
“Of the coffee.”
“But I need a free hand to pass you it.”
“Just reach towards me and I’ll take it.”
“If you say so.”
Constable Bell took the coffee, then dropped it.
“Oh nooooo.”
“Hush up, you! It’s the Junes’ cat!”
“Where?”
“There! In the leaves! It’s lying low and the colours match – clever kitty. Here, kitty kitty kitty kitty. Here, kitty kitty kitty ki-ty-ty-ty-. GET IT!”
The scruffle was brief, but intense. The lion was groggy and rolled over, batting at the air and snoring.
“Help me out here, Constable Drum.”
“One moment Constable Bell. I’ve discovered a murr-durr.”
“What? Where!”
Constable Drum pointed.
“Buried in the leaves, see? Good job the lion was here, we never would’ve found him. And look, it put him to good use – big teeth marks! Poor hungry kitty.”
“Poor hungry kitty,” said Constable Bell. “Let’s take it home. It’s done enough detective work for one day. Hey, is the body Shaun or Sean?”
“How’d you know it was Shaun or Sean?”
“Because they’re the only two yobbos left in this burg.”
“Oh. It’s Shaun. I think. He’s got no face.”
“Only an improvement then. Miserable punk. C’mon, kitty kitty kitty ki-t-y-y-y-y.”

***

“I’m puzzled,” admitted Constable Bell.
“Wit’s end,” agreed Mr. June.
“Completely stumped,” said Mrs. June, loyally.
“Two-hundred and eighty-four murders,” said Constable Drum sadly, “and not one little murderer! It’s sure a sad new year’s day, this is.”
“Here,” said Mr. June. “More champagne. That always makes me feel better.”
“Aw thanks. You’re nice.”
“More than nice,” said Constable Bell. “You’re quality people. What kind of other folk would take time out of their holiday to let us know their cat found a body? Constable Drum, could you please grab the other goddamned leg and pull.”
“Okay.”
They pulled. They struggled. But the lion wouldn’t let go. Its ears flattened, its eyes narrowed, its throat made interesting and alarming sounds. But it wouldn’t let go.
“Well, piss,” said Constable Bell. “I don’t know how this lousy drunk stumbled into your cat’s mouth and then forced it to chew up and swallow him, but I guess he was the murderer. And much good it did him. Good thing he went in head-first or getting his fingerprints would be a real bitch. Got any more of that champagne?”
“Here you go,” said Mrs. June. “And thank you so very much, officers, for solving this case. It’s good to feel safe around here again.”
“No problem,” said Constable Drum. “I think we’ll get promoted. I’ve never caught a murderer before.”
“Yeah,” said Constable Bell. “Yeah, I guess so. Hey, you mind if I ask you folks a question?”
“Go for it,” said Mrs. June.
“Do you know where I could get a lion like that? It’s real nice-looking. Real quality. And it makes you feel safer, to know that kind of money’s in the neighborhood.”

To: info@OGHotdogs.com
From: polly_pocket_383@gmail.com
Subject: Historic!

Hi there!
I can’t tell you how happy I am to see that building open for business again. My grandma wouldn’t stop telling me about how much she used to enjoy a nice footlong from your dad’s business when she was out on the boardwalk – with mustard, of course. Congratulations on bringing the past to the present and thanks for keeping our local spirit thriving! Kudos!!!

-Polly Packer.

PS: there was just one thing I thought I should mention: I asked for a hot dog and the man you had behind the counter put a Papillion on the counter and pulled out a lighter. I repeated myself, and he just shrugged and set the poor little thing aflame. Does he speak English?

To: polly_pocket_383@gmail.com
From: info@OGHotdogs.com
Subject: re: Historic!

First of all, thank you so much for patronizing my fine establishment. My dad died thinking he’d seen the last hot dog ever to be sold in Slandcrane leave his hands at the age of thirty-three, and I like to imagine that wherever the old man is now, he’s smiling at me. With as many teeth as he can manage.
Now, pleasantries aside, I must respectfully remind you that your grandma was a very old woman before she died (may you live to reach such age!) and she may have glossed over a few of the details.
You see, Slandcrane is privileged to be the home of not just A hot dog stand, but THE hot dog stand. That’s right, that fantastic treat you love to eat? It was born here, nurtured by the loving hands of my great-great-grandfather, Horton Louie. Then it was ripped out of his loving hands and carried away to strange and devious places by his horrible and evil assistant, who subsequently perverted this knowledge and produced the mass-market animal-tube of mixed meats we’re all unfortunate enough to know today by its stolen, unjust name of ‘hot dog.’
Our hot dogs are more than just delicious: they’re authentic. And honest. And ethical. And isn’t that reason enough for you that we used the old-fashioned, proper method of hot dog preparation, where we set the dog alight right there in front of you?

Thanks again,
Francine Louie, Manager
Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog.

PS: Jason Taylor can speak English, he just didn’t want to speak to you, probably because you were being so snotty. Work on that.

***

To: info@OGHotdogs.com
From: huey_gottagonow0@hotmail.com
Subject: um…. SPCA much?

Okay, let me be blunt: when I asked for a wiener I didn’t exactly expect a dachshund….. or for it to be covered in gasoline…. The dude didn’t even put a bun on it…
Look, I’m a simple guy… I don’t ask for much…just a hot dog?.. with mustard maybe?… I didn’t ask for a dog that reminded me of my parents’ to be put in front of me and set on fire…. If your stand wasn’t right on the boardwalk it wouldn’t have made it to water….
Like, does the humane society know about this?… because this is the sort of thing they keep an eye on…

-Hubert…

To: huey_gottagonow0@hotmail.com
From: info@OGHotdogs.com
Subject: re: um…. SPCA much?

Thanks for your patronage, Hubert. And for your opinions. Let me reassure you about the ‘issues’ you’ve decided exist at our quality establishment.
As you no doubt noticed when purchasing one of our fine treats, Hubert, the sign above the counter reads as follows: Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog.
ORIGINAL. That means something, Hubert. Authenticity. And if you’d read the last two words on that sign too, you’d have realized that anyone who asks for a ‘hot dog’ should expect what they should get: an honest to god canine served at high temperatures, either smouldering, cindered, or blazing as per customer’s request and taste.
Thanks again for your insights. If you paid.

Thanks again,
Francine Louie, Manager
Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog.

PS: Do you even have a last name, or did you forget it?

***

To: info@OGHotdogs.com
From: fl0u0ffy_cudd1es@gmail.com
Subject: Death

You will pay for what you have done.
A whole german shepherd, up like a candle on a birthday cake.
All I ever wanted was pork. Like tears in the napalm rain.
I will see you dead.

To: fl0u0ffy_cudd1es@gmail.com
From: info@OGHotdogs.com
Subject: re: Death

First off, thanks for the notice. Hope you felt real brave sending that from your mom’s basement. Yeah, I know who this is, BRUCE – it’s bruce, right? That’s what your friends called you when they were trying to get you to wake up after you passed out. What kind of piece of shit reacts like that to perfectly legitimate – no, fucking LOCAL STYLE – cooking? I’ll tell you who. You. You do that, Bruce. You are the dogshit on the bottom of the shoe that is this town and if I ever see your pimply face near my snack stand again I’ll personally scrape you off, capiche?
I’m holding the crowbar, loser. Go on. Push me.

Thanks again,
Francine Louie, Manager
Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog.

***

To: info@OGHotdogs.com
From: mayor@slandcrane.com
Subject: Notice.

Hello.
Francine, I’ve been honoured to have your family’s acquaintance for many years, and it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you this but that shack is coming down or the animal rights guys told us they’d do it themselves with you in it. With crowbars.
I know this is your dream. I know it was your dad’s dream. I know he gave an awful lot of us interesting and horrible dreams as small children, but that was another era and people didn’t have cell phones back then. I don’t want our town’s name to be permanently glued to a video of your business practices. It’s possible you should have stuck to more conventional hot dogs.
Please turn in your business license at city hall tomorrow morning and maybe leave town fast, because I can’t entirely guarantee your safety.

Tilly Whipsnirt,
Mayor of Slandcrane.

To: mayor@slandcrane.com
From: info@OGHotdogs.com
Subject: travesty of justice

Where the fuck do you get off??? Listen up you piece of shit: THEY. COPIED. US. The ORIGINAL hot dog, as it says on the building’s side which you’d know if you could READ you stupid piece of shit, is exactly what it sounds like. Hot. Dog. Even you can put those two words together and come up with an answer, right? Right? Or am I the only person in this fucking town that has the brains and the will to do what must be done???? Jason’s left me, Polly stiffed me, Hubert mocked me, the whole damned city laughs at me.
You know what?
I’m done listening.
I’ve got four hundred gallons of lighter fluid and a kennel full of Pomeranians and dachshunds back here. I’m giving myself a Viking funeral, and the lot of you useless, keening motherfuckers are going to be the thralls they throw onto my pyre.

Thanks again,
Francine Louie, Manager
Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog.

***

LOCAL BUSINESS GOES TO THE DOGS, FLAMES.
Southern Slandcrane’s Snack Stop: The ORIGINAL Hot Dog became a cauldron of lava last night following what may have been arson or just bad luck. The flames, initially far too hot for firefighting crews, had cooled sufficiently by Thursday evening for the charred skeleton of local businessowner Francine Louie to be retrieved. Although a full autopsy has not yet been performed, ex-police coroner Craig Grousecrout (45) indicated he did not believe foul play was at work.
“It’s the Pomeranians, see? All that fluff and dander, and a little spark and POOF it goes up. Fine one at a time, but light a match in a room with forty of these suckers and wow, it’s no wonder there’s not meat on ‘er. But don’t put it in the paper or nothing.”

I’m really very sorry about all of this. I don’t know how it got so far. I just was walking, you know, just walking
-just down the road, there, on Halloween eve –
and I saw some teenagers kick in a jack-o-lantern and run away. It’s much safer to do that nowadays, since a lot of them don’t have candles in them, but they’re teenagers, I bet they’d do it anyways, bet they’d do it if there were bonfires in there or welding torches.
But I thought to myself as they ran off laughing, ‘what a waste, what a waste.’
Then I caught myself and I considered it and realized…
…well. It’s ALL a waste, isn’t it?
And not just the candy and dental costs, but the poor gourds too. Some people save the seeds but I don’t know any myself, or hear of them. We cut them open and leave the husks and then we let them rot and then we throw them out. What a waste. What a waste.
But they don’t go mouldy for a good while after Halloween, do they?
So I thought about it. I got an idea, or maybe two. And the night AFTER Halloween, I went trick or treating.
No, no, no.
I went trick AND treating.
Much better.

So I came home with two garbage bags brimmed full, and I’d been choosey.
I had two little round ones.
A big fat blobby one.
Three medium ones, a little mottled.
Four tall, slim sorts.
And one with a very…. Well, not MEMORABLE smile, but a funny smile. It had a funny smile.
Yes, it was a very funny smile.

I put the water to boiling, and while it steamed I dipped a cloth in it and I started cleaning them off. They’d only been outside a few days, but hygiene and kitchenwork are like salt and paper, or fish and chits. It’s very important.
I cleaned out their eyes
And cleaned off their noses
I tidied their ears
And freshened their smiles.
Even the very funny smile.
When I was done they were bright and shining and the water was boiling. I opened the drawer and I took out the masher. I held it up high above my head and as I brought it down
-carefully! You can’t be careless in a kitchen!-
They jumped me.

It was easy to tie me up. Used my own apron, too! Hoist with my own petard.
They interrogated me after that. A bit of a rant crept through here and there. They were pretty cross about having their insides scooped out, I tell you what. Said they were all hollow and scrabbly now, and they needed to be full, rim to rim. Said they were scorched and parched from candles and needed to be soft and wet. Said that being mushed and mashed and souped was the final straw, and I should’ve known better.
I told them it was just a mistake, and all I’d intended, but they didn’t like that. Tied me with the other apron, and the other. Knew I shouldn’t have bought so many but they had so many charming slogans on them and I thought they were fun for barbecues. They’re torn into strips now and they’ve got me stuck fast hand and foot.
What a waste, what a waste.

I know I must sound awfully cheerful for someone in this kind of pickle, and most folks would be pretty ready to say some mean stuff about anyone who put them there. But all this kind of thing, well, it’s all down to me and my ideas, and I won’t let the buck go much farther than that. Don’t let this get around, but last year I had this idea about our Christmas lights and my when I was through it was just – oh!
I think I heard the door; I bet they’ll be back soon.
I wonder if they’ve found the knife?